Middlegame
by Rowana77
Summary: What happened between the first time Sherlock Holmes died, on the boxcar during the escape from Heilbronn, and the second time he died, at Reichenbach? Discover the "missing scenes" as Holmes, Watson and Simza navigate this perilous journey, dodging Moriarty's minions, running, fighting, bickering, loving and healing as they go. Holmes/Simza, Holmes/Watson.
1. Chapter 1

Was it delirium or just exhaustion? Holmes was not sure; his restless mind ticking through data even as he tried to sleep. They needed sleep, all of them, and yet now was not the time to rest. It couldn't be; they had to get off this train soon. Moriarty, if he had survived in the rubble of the Meinhardt factory, had doubtless telegraphed ahead and would have deadly welcoming parties waiting at the upcoming stations.

And yet their tired and wounded bodies failed them, and they slept.

Tomas kept the first watch, promising to wake them if the train slowed, if they had a chance of jumping off before it arrived at a station and near-certain death. Holmes let his eyes close and slipped into a dream of falling through a bottomless, bone-chillingly frozen black void, awakening to the half-lit icy cold of reality when the boxcar jolted bolts of agony through his shoulder, then drifting back into an uneasy darkness.

He was aware that Watson had shifted him down into the meager straw that lined the bottom of the car and was lying behind him, bracing Holmes' shoulder against his chest so Holmes would be spared the worst of the train's rocking. They had no protection from the cold except to huddle together in the clothing they wore. Frigid wind blasted in through every open slat as the train rushed along. Holmes' feet were cold, even through the fine gypsy leather boots with their sheepskin lining. Watson had managed to get his right boot back on him after removing the ugly splinter, before the ankle swelled up - but now he could feel the turgid flesh pressing hard against the leather. He wondered if he would be able to walk on it, let alone run...or fight.

Simza was curled against the front of him, holding his hands in both of her own, cradled to her breast under her thick cloak. He breathed in the scent of her tangled mass of curls as she nuzzled into his throat – straw, spice, blood, cordite. He was grateful for the warmth, and for the fact that each time he was jarred awake, gasping from the hurt and the dream of falling, she woke, too – whispering calming words in her own language, squeezing his hands gently.

He'd felt Watson wake too, several times, tightening his grip around Holmes' waist as the train lurched. The pain radiating from Holmes' savaged shoulder was breathtaking, and he felt it sear and pulse like fire even through the laudanum haze. Holmes was fairly inured to laudanum – a fact he had never shared with Watson - so he concentrated on riding above the pain, trying to move his mind to some bright high Elysium above the infernal blaze.

On some level, Holmes knew he had died just a few hours earlier. He mulled that fact with purely clinical interest. _Died, heart stopped. Brought back by Watson._ He accepted it factually. On quite another level, he was fascinated by it, trying to remember where his consciousness had been while he'd been dead. He couldn't recall. As the adrenaline injection had coursed through his veins and reanimated him, he'd spouted some nonsense about that horrid pony and a fork and Mary. But the truth was he had no idea. There had been no dream of ponies and dining utensils, of that he was sure; he'd made that up out of whole cloth, his brain sparking and coruscating like lightning. Of his step into the Last Great Mystery, he had no memory, no memory at all.

The whole thing annoyed him more than a little. He reminded himself that it had not been time to die; not now. Not yet.

_Not while Moriarty still draws breath._

He hoped that Watson would someday realize the impact of what they'd done today. _Thank you, old boy. By raising me from the dead - for a while, anyway - you've saved yourself. And Mary too...I would have liked to know her better, I think, but she still has a part to play before all this is done._

Suddenly - as the boxcar shuddered like bones rattling, shattering Holmes for the thousandth time that night - he saw in a single pristine flash the endgame, the gleaming black-and-white architecture of how it would all play out. _The red book, Tomas, the ferry from Calais, the message to Mary, Lestrade and Scotland Yard..._

Like pieces on a chess board.

And for the black king, only white death.

For the white king, too, more than likely.

The near-certainty of this didn't frighten him. It had been a foregone conclusion, really, since the opening gambit.

He felt Watson stir awake, felt Watson's fingers press against his neck, checking his pulse. _Mother hen._ Holmes' mind registered it fondly, recorded it, moved along - as he also suddenly realized that the soft, warm support under his head was probably Watson's arm.

_His arm is probably asleep_, Holmes thought vaguely and with an odd sense of contentment, before the tide pulled him under again, into the dark dream and the long fall.

###


	2. Chapter 2

_Watson could hear Holmes screaming; amid mortar shells bursting he saw, as if from a great distance, a brutal gray tower split down the middle and come tumbling down, its stones catching fire as they tumbled through the black air. Then it was silence, except for the stones that kept falling in the distance, thud, thud, thud in a regular rhythm. He searched and searched the rubble, his heart pounding, calling for Holmes, but he knew with a cold certainty that he would never find him._

Watson snapped awake suddenly, ice in his veins. The situation came flooding back to him: the slant of sunlight through the boxcar's siding told him it must be late afternoon. He realized the thudding he'd heard in the dream must have been the juddering, continuous noise of the train as it rushed along the tracks. The remnants of the fearful dream fled his brain. He was chilled to the bone; it was, if possible, even colder in the boxcar than it had been when they'd frantically boarded it, what, hours earlier?

He looked across at two dark, sleeping forms that he recognized as Simza and Tomas.

And another dark form, wedged upright into the corner of the boxcar. It was Holmes.

Watson quickly levered himself up off the floor and was at Holmes's side in an instant. The detective's eyes were closed and he was half-leaning against the rough siding. His dirty hair was a tangle, his face was dead pale under the grime of their recent adventures, and the dark circles under his eyes were alarming. But…he was breathing. Watson's alarm dissipated but a fraction.

"Holmes." The detective's left hand, bare of a glove or any protection, was exposed to the cold. Watson took it and wondered how long Holmes had been like this; the hand felt like ice. He rubbed it briskly. "Holmes, can you hear me?"

Holmes stirred, groaned, opened his eyes and focused on Watson. His eyes flicked down to the hand Watson was chafing, and he grimaced. "Mother Hen, you're awake," he greeted Watson hoarsely. His face relaxed into a rueful smile. "I'm guessing I'll need that hand later, though I can't quite feel it at the moment."

"You should take better care of it, then." Watson said sharply, and kept rubbing. "Tell me when sensation comes back to it. It won't be pleasant, I warn you." He stopped and examined the too-white hand; a bit of pink was returning to it already. "I think you have escaped frostbite and may yet keep all your fingers, but really, Holmes. How did you get over here?"

"Oh, as to that…I don't quite recall. I awakened and my chest hurt, and I was having a bit of trouble breathing, so I thought I would do well to sit up."

Watson stared at him, worry mounting. "Your _chest_ hurt and you had trouble breathing? How long ago was this?"

"It's all right, old man. It was just where you did your best to break all my ribs earlier today."

"Saving your life, you mean."

"Yes, that."

"Your chest is probably bruised and swollen, and no doubt the hard floor wasn't best for it."

"I can…feel my hand now," Holmes gasped. "Ouch."

"Yes, Holmes. I said it would hurt. Keep it in a pocket or something next time." He almost said "keep rubbing it with your other hand," but Holmes' right arm, of course, was bound securely against his chest with Watson's now-disreputable scarf, protecting his mangled shoulder. Watson kept rubbing the hand, which Holmes was now doing his best to pull away from him.

Watson sighed. "Holmes, I'm sorry you are hurting so much. My first priority will be to get you to some medical attention…and _will you_ stop trying to pull your hand away from me?"

"Watson, we need to get off this train." Holmes made another attempt to retrieve his now-reddened, no doubt throbbing hand.

Watson neatly thwarted the endeavor. "Yes, I am aware…"

"No, I mean to say, we will need to disembark in exactly twelve minutes."

"What?" Watson stopped rubbing, and Holmes triumphantly snatched the hand away from him.

"In twelve minutes this train will reach the Nessental grade, and will slow down significantly. It is our best chance to disembark."

Holmes eyed Watson in the slanting light, no doubt waiting for Watson's exclamation of surprise. Watson didn't really want to give him the satisfaction – but this! It was astonishing. He couldn't help it. "Holmes – how could you know that? You know where we are?"

Holmes put his raw hand into his jacket pocket, wincing as he did so. "I know exactly where we are."

"But how…? You have been nearly unconscious, as I recall, and in a great deal of pain. You slept! How could you keep track of where this train is going? How could you know?"

Holmes was as pleased by Watson's reaction as he could possibly be in his condition. "Pain is boring; sleep even more so," he said, in a notably weakened approximation of his usual airy, completely disingenuous and always annoying dismissal of Watson's admiration. "It isn't difficult to do the time and distance calculations in one's head, especially if one knows there are only certain routes through the mountains. The fact that the sun was shining made it even easier – one could tell which direction we were heading at all times. We passed through three tunnels, which, calculating the time and speed of this train, could only have been the Urnerloch, Eisenoch and Schlossberg. We are currently deep within Switzerland, in the Bernese Oberland region."

Holmes paused to give weight to his grand finale. "And, of course, you are aware that I have memorized all the European train tables."

"No, I was not aware of that. You amaze me." Watson said, still staring at his friend in disbelief.

"Yes, well…" Holmes looked like a dirty, disheveled cat who had just consumed a canary. "In any case, we must rouse our friends and prepare to leave this supremely elegant vehicle in the short window of time we have open to us. If we stay until the train reaches its destination, you may be sure that Moriarty's minions will be lying in wait for us. I'll wager that he and his henchmen are baying for our blood."

"Yes, of that I'm sure," Watson said grimly.

Holmes was looking at him with a different kind of expression now. "Watson, I'm afraid I shall require your help – there's not much time, and I need to be able to move. And I currently cannot."

"You can't move? You moved to this corner somehow."

"Yes, and I…in doing so, I did something to my back, I fear."

"Your _back_, now? What is the trouble with it?"

"A sudden movement of the train did it, I believe – as I was attempting to settle in to this corner. The discomfort is really quite stunning."

Watson suddenly realized that through all of their conversation, Holmes had not moved his body or head. Could this be a hidden shrapnel wound he had not discovered in his earlier, frenetic examination of the dying detective? Was it Holmes' heart – which, after all, had already stopped once, earlier today? He forced himself to answer calmly. "Let me take a look."

He moved closer, reaching inside Holmes' Romany jacket with both hands, feeling for the stickiness of blood… or whatever else he could find that had so paralyzed his friend.

Holmes closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat as Watson's hands moved professionally, up and down his sides and around to his back. Watson's fingers probed gently, covering every inch, feeling Holmes' too-thin body, all sinew and muscle under his filthy white shirt. And then he found his answer.

Holmes moaned, his breath warm against Watson's neck. "Oh. God. Hurts like hell."

"It's your back muscles, Holmes. They've seized up. Your muscles are completely knotted up back here, that's all. It's a sympathetic reaction, probably, to everything you've been through today. Your right arm being bound up in an unnatural position, your favoring your right leg from the splinter wound. You probably made a sudden move and that was it. Everything cramped up."

"You need to fix it, Watson. I…I have to get to Reichenbach; we all do. And we have to get off this train in," he looked intently at the slant of the sunlight, "seven minutes."

"All right." Watson was aware that he was actually locked into a rather tight embrace with Holmes at this moment, not that either of them was especially enjoying it. Holmes had to be in terrible discomfort right now. "You won't like this either."

"Do your worst, old boy," Holmes breathed.

Watson rucked up Holmes' shirt in back and let his fingers sink into the first knotted muscle he found.

"Oh, good Lord," Holmes gasped against his shoulder.

"Don't be such a _child_, and please, if you would, stop biting my shoulder," Watson gritted, his hands working in circles, rhythmically, strongly, ironing out the knots. He could feel Holmes' tangled muscles easing, little by little. Good. "Try to relax."

"My apologies. I did not mean to bite," Holmes whispered, a bit brokenly. He sagged against Watson.

As his hands worked on Holmes' back, Watson reflected on the complete idiocy of the whole situation. Here he was, in a rushing boxcar in the middle of God knew where in Switzerland, tending to his mad friend who had landed him, as usual, in the middle of an insane, scarcely believable caper. With gypsies. And the Paris Opera. And a maniac crime lord. And a sniper, and a murder. And horses. And a pony. And the collapsing tower and the mess they had made of the Meinhart factory. And the meat hook (good God, the meat hook). The gun battle. The flight through the forest. The mortars…

What in the _bloody hell_ were they all doing, following this man?

"Is it somewhat better now?" he asked Holmes, trying his best to keep both the fondness and the frustration out of his voice. "And why the hell can't you ever be normal, by the way?"

Holmes' voice was somewhat muffled by Watson's shoulder. "Normality is boredom by another name, Watson." He raised his head and looked at Watson with something Watson couldn't quite read shining from his dark eyes. "It's better…much better. Thank you. You are a wonder of the world."

They sat like that a moment longer, and Holmes suddenly inclined his head and rested his forehead against Watson's. Watson didn't move.

"You must promise me this, Watson." Holmes voice was sober and steady.

Watson's hands were still on Holmes' back, but Watson made no attempt to remove them. "What, Holmes?"

"Whatever happens, you must make sure that I get to Reichenbach. Moriarty must be stopped."

"Holmes, you're in no shape…you cannot…"

Holmes shook his head stubbornly. "No, it can only be me. We have no proof, Watson – we cannot go to the authorities. They will never believe us. We will go to Mycroft, of course, but he can do nothing. Please, I pray you, if I falter, if I collapse, do whatever you need to do to get me back on my feet again. Even if only for a few hours. I _must _get to that peace conference - and deal with Moriarty myself."

He looked Watson square in the eyes, and Watson saw the steel, the determination, the red doom in the dark depths of Holmes' gaze. It was a look that he had never seen on his friend's face before, and it shook him to the core.

"This," said Holmes urgently. "This is what I am fated to do, Watson. All I need to do is get there. You must promise me that you will get me there."

"Holmes, we don't yet know your condition – you need a hospital and medical treatment…"

"Watson, please…swear that you will get me there. I need to know. I need to…" Holmes' voice became a plea.

Watson crumbled, _as he always did, damn it_, before Holmes' invocations.

"All right, Holmes, I promise you. I swear that I will get you there. You have my word."

They stared at each other, the weight of all this hanging heavily over them. Watson tried to lighten the moment. "Unless, of course, you die first. Then I believe I will take back my promise. I'll not be wheeling your corpse into the peace conference – although God knows your corpse might make a better delegate than old Lord Salisbury."

Holmes looked at him fondly. "Thank you, old chap. You are in all ways a saint. I trust you at your word." He blew out a breath, which lingered as white vapor in the frosted air, mingling with Watson's. "Who is this Salisbury, by the way?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "The _Prime Minister_, Holmes. I know you resolutely do not follow politics, but really…"

"Ah, yes, right. Indeed? I had thought it was that Gladstone fellow…the one we named the dog after."

"Not for a few years now, Holmes."

Holmes seemed to consider this information carefully.

Watson looked around, and noticed that Simza was awake and sitting up, gazing at them. He became aware he was still embracing Holmes; he coughed slightly and made a move to disengage.

Holmes raised an eyebrow and did likewise. He tilted his head and quirked a grin at Simza, who eyed him solemnly and finally smiled back.

"Watson, a moment or so now until the Nessental grade. Can you awaken our other tired friend? Perhaps Tomas can help you to open the door."

As he spoke, the train began to slow and the boxcar angled slightly as it began its climb of the grade.

Watson looked at Holmes again in wonder.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson had roused Tomas, and the black-haired gypsy was engaged in an animated conversation with Holmes as Watson applied strength to the sliding door of the boxcar. Out of the corner of his eye, Watson saw Holmes - who had managed to stand somewhat shakily and brace himself in the corner of the car - hand something to Tomas; the older man nodded emphatically, pocketed whatever it was and grasped Holmes' good hand, a look passing between them. It was impossible to hear what they'd said over the noise of the climbing, laboring train.

Watson wondered what had just transpired, but there was no time to mull it over.

"Sim, Tomas, help me push this door, would you?" Watson shouted, and the two gypsies enthusiastically sprang to assist. Holmes lingered in the corner, eyes taking in everything, as the three of them slowly pried the door open, letting in a steady blast of late-afternoon sunlight, sound and frigid wind. The train was gaining altitude as it ascended the grade, the tracks cutting through a forest of conifers on either side. A few snowflakes whirled in the rapid air, and as the trees whipped past, Watson saw dark clouds gathering above the mountains.

"Holmes, what now?" he yelled above the train noise. Sim and Tomas were peering uneasily out the door; the train still seemed to be moving too fast for any sort of a safe jump out of the car. Watson moved to the corner and offered Holmes his elbow, helping him to where the others were standing.

Holmes looked out the door and then back at Watson, his brow creased. "I don't think it will slow much more than this," he said. "It's almost at the crest now. We shall have to jump quickly, before it heads downhill and picks up speed again."

"Good Lord, Holmes – we could break our necks doing this. Tomas and Sim and I might just be able to do it. But you; you're in no shape…"

"It has to be done, Watson. There's no way around it." Holmes' jaw was set, but Watson could read the trepidation in his eyes as he gauged the train's speed. The ground on either side of the tracks was steeply graded, studded with rocks and bushes, and anyone jumping off the train would tumble down the slope and be at the mercy of the obstacles.

Watson's military mind took over the situation. "Sim and Tomas will jump first, and then I will jump with you. They will have a chance to recover a little and then can come to assist us." He felt Holmes tighten his grip on his elbow as the train suddenly lurched.

Sim nodded fiercely, her brown eyes flickering from Watson and lingering on Holmes with concern.

Holmes shook his head. "I think it's every man for himself, old boy. I don't think jumping off together is going to work very well."

Watson, looking out the door at the fast-moving forest, could see the truth of that. The force of their moving bodies – depending on how they landed – could easily injure each other. They'd have to leap one by one.

"All right then, old cock. I think you're right. I'll go first then, then Sim, then you, and then Tomas…."

Sim rolled her eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she snapped.

And launched herself out the door.

The three men watched in surprise as her flying form hit the slope, tucked and rolled in a miniature avalanche -and then she was gone in a whirl of snow.

"All right then!" Watson shouted. "Now…!"

He got no further, though, as Tomas grinned, gave a small wave and leaped out, tumbling down the grade in another small avalanche.

Watson and Holmes looked at each other, and Holmes gave him a gallant half-smile. "Remember your promise," he said. "Patch me up and get me to Reichenbach."

"Just land on your good shoulder, Holmes – the snow will make it easier. Keep as loose as you can, and roll. I'll come for you." Watson could see no outcome in which this was going to be good for Holmes.

Holmes nodded, gritted his teeth…and leaped.

Watson saw him hit the slope, and then Watson himself jumped.

Breath knocked out of him as he hit the snow, the world became a wildly gyrating kaleidoscope of sky, snow, trees, snow, and sky again as Watson rolled and ricocheted down the shoulder of the grade. His fall seemed to last forever as the momentum carried him, and he felt the slash and pain of several rocks and bushes that tried but did nothing to break the speed of his headlong tumble.

He face-planted in the snow at the bottom of the slope, air completely dashed from his lungs, gasping into the wet snowpack, stunned.

_Holmes._

Watson plucked his face out of the snow, drew a tortured breath of frozen air, sucked in another breath, and sat up. His voice wouldn't work; his lungs laboring to respond normally. He tried calling for Holmes, but nothing came out of his mouth except a rasp.

He grasped the singularly unhelpful nearby bush that had scored several lacerations on his cheek, and finally managed to pull himself upright. No limbs broken, superficial cuts, hip and shoulder will be hurting me later; old leg injury probably exacerbated, he mentally enumerated, but he couldn't waste time on all that now.

"Holmes!" he finally managed. The train had disappeared into the scrim of falling snow, its rattle and clack dissipating as the silence of the mountain forest took command.

There was no answer.

"Sim; Tomas!" Watson shouted, stronger now, his regular respiration somewhat restored. He lumbered through the snow, back to where Holmes had jumped. "Holmes!"

Through the greying wall of twilight snow, he heard an answering voice.

It was Sim. "Hallo!" she shouted.

"Sim! Over here! Do you see Holmes?"

Silence. Snow. The thunder of his heart.

Then, at last, her answer. "Yes, he's here. Doctor, hurry!"

Watson scrambled to the sound of her voice.

He almost fell upon the three of them; the wet snowfall was coming down thicker and harder.

It didn't mask the red stain in the snow, though. Sim and Tomas had moved Holmes a little distance from the crimson patch; Sim was holding his head in her lap.

"It's his shoulder – the wound is bleeding again," Sim said. "He must have opened it up again in the fall."

Watson swore and knelt down in the snow, stripping off his gloves. "Holmes."

The detective's eyelids fluttered and then opened, blinking away the gathering snowflakes. "Sorry, old chap – I think I landed a bit awkwardly," he whispered.

"Yes," said Watson, "I believe you did. No matter, though; I'll get you mended up. We can't stay here; we'll freeze." His hands moved quickly, surely, opening the blood-soaked Romany jacket and undoing the stained knitted scarf that Mary had presented to him, what, just a few days ago with so much love in her eyes? Holmes had derided it, and Watson had worn it on the honeymoon train trip as much to spite Holmes as to show his love for his new wife.

And now wasn't it ironic that it was the very thing that was holding Holmes together?

Holmes' eyes were following his – _and you can't hide anything from Holmes_, Watson knew. He was intuiting all of Watson's thoughts just as surely as if Watson had spoken them.

"You will have to tell Mary that I…truly appreciate her handiwork," Holmes said weakly.

"Tell her yourself, Holmes," Watson retorted. "And please be quiet now."

There was nothing else he could do but help Holmes to sit up –- elevate the wound - and press his hand to the injury to try to staunch the bleeding. The blood flow from the aggravated puncture wound was already slowing in the cold. Sim leaned down and quickly ripped a portion off the hem of her skirt, rolling it up and handing it to Watson; he nodded briefly in thanks, then pushed it against the surly, sluggishly bleeding injury.

Holmes made a strangled sort of noise, then clenched his teeth and appeared to be marshaling his strength. Watson watched him carefully as he re-bound the scarf, tying Holmes' right arm securely against his chest to minimize strain to the shoulder.

"Do you think you can get up?" he asked. Holmes nodded, tight-lipped and pale, reaching out to Watson with his left arm. Watson helped him to slowly stand as Sim and Tomas watched.

Holmes let his head hang, gathering himself, taking a few deep breaths. Then he looked up at Tomas and addressed the gypsy directly. "Remember our plan, Tomas. From here straight south along these tracks about three kilometers, and you'll find the telegraph line that will guide you to Eislingen. And from that point, you know what to do."

"Yes," said Tomas. "You need not worry; I am good soldier." He flashed a smile white as the snow, then looked for a moment, somberly, at Sim. "Take care of my girl. Too many have died today."

"I can take care of myself, father," Sim protested.

"We will take care of each other," Holmes said. "And we will make sure no one has died in vain."

Tomas nodded sharply; another look passed between the gypsy and Holmes, and again Watson wondered just what he was missing, what Holmes was not sharing.

But there was, again, no time for all that.

Holmes straightened up and seemed to gain his bearings, even though the snow was coming down harder than ever. The empty railroad tracks disappeared to the north in the growing storm.

Holmes, however, was looking to the east.

"All right, then, we need to head to the village of Nessental – which should be just about a kilometer from here, the other side of this wood," he said. "I think we can just make it before nightfall."

He nodded at Tomas. The gypsy man turned south along the tracks, vanishing like an apparition in the swirling flakes.

"Holmes, honestly, do you have a map in your head?" Watson shook his head in wonderment again. He knew he had slipped back into his old role as Holmes' admiring foil, and normally it would have irked him to realize it, but at this moment he wanted to do or say whatever he could to take his friend's mind off his wounds, and keep him going. Flattery, to Holmes, was like a balm.

Holmes frowned with something of his old dismissive-yet-secretly-pleased spirit as Watson steadied him, preparing to head into the darkening forest.

"Of course, Watson, of course. It's the most convenient place to have one, is it not?"

###


	4. Chapter 4

**MIDDLEGAME by Rowana77: Chapter 4**

They reached the edge of Nessental at last. Through the scrim of falling snow, Watson could discern a few houses and barns, some with lights just visible as the blizzard dimmed the already darkening sky. A white church raised its steeple into the lowering grey clouds.

_So close, and yet so far_, he thought. They were all still dressed like gypsies. They couldn't chance just knocking on a door, for fear of raising the alarm in the village, or worse, putting any helpful citizen in danger if Sebastian Moran and his minions were indeed searching for them within a day's walk of the rail line. But they would all need help soon; very soon. The growing blizzard had slowed them down, and although the temperature hadn't dropped considerably, they were all suffering from the cold. The wind was gathering force; they wouldn't survive the night in the open.

And Holmes had been fading badly for the last half hour or so. Now he was limping heavily between Watson and Sim, his arm over Watson's shoulder on his left, Sim's arm around his waist on his right, she supporting him as best she could while trying not to jostle his wounded shoulder. The detective was moving like an automaton now, his breath coming through clenched teeth. Watson could tell how much pain Holmes must be in; he wasn't talking, wasn't trying to lighten the mood with dry commentary, and had given over leadership of the little group entirely to Watson. It all made Watson's heart tighten with anxiety; he hadn't been able to examine Holmes properly on the train, nor treat his wounds with anything save the most basic medical supplies he always carried. The one vial of morphine he'd had with him, which he'd administered to Holmes on the train, had long since worn off - and Watson was under no illusion that Holmes was very sensitive to morphine any more, anyway.

Watson halted his companions in the lee of an outlying barn that provided some protection from the worsening wind and blowing snow. Checking around the corner of the old structure, he found an unlocked door. The barn was deserted, and there were holes in the siding through which the wind whistled, but there was some stale straw piled on the floor and it was rudimentary shelter. They breathed in the smell of straw and cold dirt, and were grateful for the comparative warmth of just being inside, out of the gathering storm. Watson and Simza helped Holmes down to a sitting position against the barn wall, propping him against the rough wood.

"Holmes?" The detective's eyes were closed, and he looked very pale. Wet, melting snow rimed his dark hair and eyelashes. Watson thought dully that they all must look like refugees from some wandering Arctic expedition. He knelt down and grasped Holmes' good shoulder gently, and Holmes shuddered awake.

"A moment, Watson," Holmes said weakly, barely audible over the wind and the rattle of snow against the side of the barn. "Just a moment, and I think I can move on."

"No, no, we've arrived at Nessental, Holmes. We're here." He patted Holmes' shoulder reassuringly. "I'm going to leave you and Sim here to rest a bit, while I go and look around. We need to find better shelter – this blizzard is growing quite intense."

Holmes half-closed his eyes and appeared to drift off again, and Watson's heart clenched once more with worry.

"I can find us some food," said Sim, and Watson was suddenly reminded that none of them had eaten anything since they had left the gypsies at the edge of the Meinhart arms compound, nearly a day ago. Funny how rescuing your friend from a sadistic madman, then a blazing gun battle, a flight through mortar shells in a forest, a desperate escape on a train and a few harrowing near-death experiences can chase the thought of food from a man's mind, he thought sourly. He had a pounding headache, no doubt caused by hunger, worry, stress and fatigue.

"I'm sure you can," he said to Simza, "but I need you to stay here with Holmes while I reconnoiter. Keep him as warm as you can. Shelter first, then food. We will need to find something better than this barn. We won't make it through the night here, as it's sure to get colder...and Holmes needs help." He stood up. "I'll return in a little while, if all goes well."

Holmes coughed, winced as the spasm strained his bruised chest, and cleared his throat.

"Watson - head for the third house along the road into the village."

Holmes' eyes were closed, and Watson wondered if he had heard him correctly. "What?"

Holmes opened his eyes and peered up at Watson. "The third house along the road. On the left. She will help us. "

Watson gaped at him.

"It's why I brought you here, to Nessental," Holmes said patiently, as if explaining to a small child something that was very evident, and closed his eyes again.

Watson opened his mouth and closed it several times, aware that he must look very like a fish goggling in the darkness.

And then his weariness and anger boiled over in a flash.

"Holmes! As God is my witness, on the brink of death and disaster, do you still withhold your plans from me?"

Simza huddled close to Holmes and frowned mightily at Watson as he bent down to make sure Holmes heard him, freezing and dying or not. "You could have shared this information with me at some point! What is the matter with you? You still don't trust me enough to allow me in, to let me be a full partner in your work!"

Watson knew his wrath had crossed a line, and why was he shouting at his wounded friend anyway? But he couldn't stop; he was so tired, and it was all bubbling out of him.

Holmes and Simza were looking up at him in astonishment.

But Holmes deserved it, didn't he? He was the reason they were here, in dire danger, wounded and hurting, their tails between their legs, about to freeze to death in a remote Swiss valley. _I could have been in Brighton right now, with Mary, instead of being party to this cross-country theatre of improvised mayhem_, Watson thought. His anger and frustration were as white as the blizzard outside.

"And you wonder why I don't want to be party to your investigations any more?" Watson was face to face with Holmes now. Holmes closed his eyes and inched fractionally closer to Simza. "Why this is our final case? Because I do not have 'fun,' as you so glibly put it. It's not 'fun' to be shut out, every time. It's not 'fun' to see you injured because you think you have things under control, because you _don't_. Nothing in this _entire case_ has been under your control, and yet you dragged me into it and endangered my wife's life and the lives of everyone around us! How many lives were lost today?"

Simza slapped him.

Even though her hand was gloved, the blow was enough to knock Watson backward into the straw, and the shock was enough to stop his angry torrent of words. He stared at her, and at his friend, and his cheeks slowly colored with shame. He was glad Holmes couldn't see him in the growing darkness, and even more so that he couldn't see Holmes' face.

It was Holmes who spoke first, and his voice was soft and seemed to Watson infinitely sad. "You're right, of course, Watson. I am sorry. I have taken terrible liberties with your friendship and good will, and I…have withheld things from you. I should not have done so. I hope you know…that this cause is of supreme importance, that those who gave their lives today did it in the service of a great justice. And I hope you know, have always known…Watson….that I trust you with my life…"

Holmes' voice trailed off in the darkness.

Watson thought his heart would shatter into small pieces. He staggered to his feet. "Holmes, dear fellow. It is I who should apologize. I…I cannot tell you what came over me. The fatigue, the strain of the day…"

"Oh, _for God's sake_, you men!" Simza snapped. "_Shut up!_ Just shut up. I've had enough, really enough, of your arguments. You are both…," she searched for the word, then said it in French, drawing out the syllables, "_im-pos-si-ble!_ We are in a desperate situation here, if you haven't already noticed, no matter whose fault all this is. This man has lost a lot of blood, and we are all freezing to death, Doctor. _Whoever_ lives in that third house along the road, please just go there now and get her help."

Watson stared at her. He made a move toward Holmes, who was slumped wearily against Simza's shoulder.

"Now!" Simza shouted. She pulled her wool cloak around Holmes and glared up at Watson.

Watson met her ferocious eyes, hesitated but one second more, then turned to leave, regret like a gelid weight in the pit of his stomach. He looked back once, but it was hard to see the two of them in the shadows, so he exited into the storm, closing the barn door behind him as he faced into the stinging wind. Night had fallen completely now, and he could just make out the lights of the village through the blowing snow.

With a sigh, he began to tramp through the drifts toward the little road that led into Nessental.

It wasn't until he'd walked some distance that he realized he had never, in the heat of his pique, asked Holmes who lived in the third house on the left.

***AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a work in progress – more on the way very soon! Let me know how you like it so far, any ideas you may have, how you like the characters and their interaction, etc. Thanks for your reviews! I'm especially flattered by the ones that say this could have been in the movie – I love to write the "missing scenes" that to us (the fans) do so much to illuminate the characters and their relationships, but that inevitably get chopped from (or never written into) the movie.

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	5. Chapter 5

"I want him, Moran. I want him alive, and I want Watson alive. Hurt them all you want. Yes, hurt them. But deliver them to me alive."

Moran, holding a handkerchief to the still-bleeding slash mark on his cheek – which he accepted without question _because it was his fault, after all, that they had escaped _– nodded silently and watched through half-lidded eyes as Professor James Moriarty, his thin veneer of civilization peeled away by _the failure and the frustration and the fucking abject idiocy_ of everyone around him, raged up and down the shattered ruins of the Meinhart complex's offices.

It was a fascinating sight: Moriarty out of control – or was he? In any case, it made Moran's breath quicken.

"Send Jamison to London and have him bring the precious Mrs. Watson here to me," Moriarty had come up behind Moran, who stood unmoving, and hissed in his ear. He threw down the piece of metal wire he'd used to lacerate Moran's cheek. "I want them both to watch what I do to her, and then I'll flay the doctor in front of her while there's still light left in her eyes, and I'll make Sherlock bloody Holmes watch all of it. I'll _feed them to him_. I'll _drown him in their blood_."

Moran stood cold as a cobra's heart. Waiting.

"Then I'll take my time with _him_." Moriarty's pupils were blown wide, mouth under the fox-red beard curving gently, lasciviously.

"You know, he's quite a beautiful man, Moran. Especially when he was screaming under my hands. Exquisite, in fact; the eyes, the skin, the muscles. I think we dissected some of those shoulder muscles quite effectively. Yes, I could take my time with him. Perhaps complete my little study of that rather astonishing musculature."

Moriarty paused, a white drop of spittle poised at the left corner of his lip, chest heaving.

"And then his brain, of course. I wonder what makes it…" he spat out the word, "_special_. It would be in the service of science to find out what. Makes. Sherlock. Holmes. Tick."

The words fell like drops of blood, gentle, heavy.

Moran looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

"You know what to do, Moran."

"Yes, Professor."

"If you fail me again…" The voice was soft, but under it ran a frozen river, a Stygian current of madness and eternal pain.

Moran knew the tone.

"I won't, Professor. You have my word."

Half a second of silence.

Then.

"I had your fucking word before, and you _failed me_!" Moriarty shouted in his ear.

Moran moved not a muscle. The spittle landed on his slashed cheek and the hand that covered it. He didn't speak. There was nothing to say.

"Best to do what you promise, Colonel Moran. I can make you scream, too."

Moriarty lifted Moran's hand and the handkerchief away from the bleeding, open cut on his cheek.

Moran stared straight ahead.

Moriarty watched intently as blood welled up in the wound and a thin rivulet of red spilled streamed down Moran's face. His eyes followed the red, then, breathing heavily, he placed his own hand over the wound, pinching it together, holding it shut.

Moran's breath shuddered in his throat.

"I can heal you, Moran." The voice flowed like molten iron, pooling in his ear, and the hand on his wound tightened, sending searing pain like red lava through every nerve ending in Moran's face. "I can heal you, and I can have you, and I can destroy you. "

"Yes, Professor."

"Find them. Bring Holmes and Watson to me." He squeezed the wound cruelly one more time, and then shoved Moran's face roughly, releasing him.

Words were past.

Moran nodded briefly and turned on his heel, striding quickly out of the room, not bothering to cover the bleeding laceration.


	6. Chapter 6

**MIDDLEGAME - Chapter 6**

The wind had built up force, and by the time Watson had managed to make his way past the first two houses on the road – their windows lit golden and inviting, their occupants snug within – it had become a physical opponent, clawing and bludgeoning him with frigid fury. He leaned forward into it, fighting to stay upright, blinking the gritty, wet snow out of his eyes. Ahead, he could just make out the third house, with one window alight. Someone was within.

He forced himself to walk faster, wondering how Holmes and Sim were faring back in the barn. The temperature, he was sure, had fallen even more since he'd left them.

He slogged through drifts to the front door of the house – a beautiful folk-carved door, he dully registered, in an otherwise unprepossessing wood abode, of the type common for this region. Lace curtain over the front window. A woman's touch. Lamplight within.

Holmes had said "she will help us." Who was she?

He knocked. The sound was scarcely audible over the wind's howl.

Gathering his coat around him, he shivered and waited. The lace curtain moved, and just as he had raised his hand to knock once more, the door opened.

A woman's handsome form, silhouetted by the lamplight behind her. A modulated, intelligent – somewhat familiar? – voice. "Eine sehr slechte nacht. Wie kann ich ihnen helfen, mein Herr? Gibt es ein Notfall?"

Watson, his frozen lips barely working, fumbled for the few words of German he knew. "Sprechen Sie englisch?" he asked, trying to control the tremble in his voice as his body began to abandon its fight against the cold.

"English? Of course, yes. You are English? " Her voice rose a little as she fully took in the sight of him. "My God. Have you been out walking on a night like this? Are you completely mad? Are you lost? Come in immediately!"

The voice WAS familiar. A slight Scottish brogue; but upper-class - Edinburgh? He couldn't place it, and he didn't have time to try. She had grasped his arm and was attempting to pull him inside.

"Madam, thank you, but I have two friends who are sheltering in a barn on the outskirts of the village, and one of them is in desperate need of medical attention." He shook off her grasp, stood there.

"Medical attention? I'm a doctor. I will get my bag and follow you…"

She turned and he finally saw her face, half-profile, in the lamplight's golden glow. _She was a doctor...?_

He stepped up over the threshold, half-into the room, gazing at her.

And then it dawned.

"Good Lord – _Abbie_?"

She whirled back to him, her eyes searching his face, trying to penetrate, he was sure, the grime and blood and streaming snowmelt.

And then recognition illuminated her face as well.

"Oh, my Lord. John? _John Watson?_"

They stared at each other. He took her in – tall and slender, dark hair taken down for the night, perhaps a few more lines on the face, but still the same Abigail MacKinnon he had known at the College of Medicine in Edinburgh all those years ago…

"Abbie – there's no time to lose, I'm sorry, and it's most astonishing to see you, but…"

"Yes, your friends…let me hurry. My girl has gone home for the day, John – my _God_, John," she shook her head again. "I will dress and get my bag. To save time, can you go out to the barn – the horse is in the stall, the sleigh ready inside; the harness is right there…"

"Yes, of course."

"To the left and around the back."

Watson nodded and turned quickly, and as he did, his leg with its old injury nearly gave out beneath him. He braced himself against the door, gritting his teeth. She was at his side in an instant.

"Are you injured?"

"An old…war wound," he said. "Sorry. It's nothing. I can manage. Let's just get there as fast as we can."

"How can I best prepare to help your friend?" She had picked up a black medical satchel that stood at the ready by the front door.

"Bad puncture wound in the shoulder; that's the worst of it. Splinter wound in the leg. He's lost blood and is weak, perhaps in shock…"

She was looking at him with great concern in her large blue eyes; then narrowed them briefly. "Puncture and splinter? What in the world are you up to, John? All right, don't answer now. Yes, fast as we can. I'll meet you in front of the barn."

The large bay gelding in Abbie's neatly kept barn was kind and tractable, and in fact walked into the sleigh's traces obediently, by himself, and stood expectantly as Watson threw the harness over him and cinched him up to the black four-seater sleigh. A fine doctor's horse, Watson thought admiringly as he led the big beast out into the wind - and as he did, Abbie was at his side, bag in hand, wrapped in a heavy black cloak against the cold.

"Right, I know the barn you mentioned. Old Greben's hay storage. " She sprang into the sleigh, Watson tumbling in beside her, and she flipped the reins smartly against the bay's back. "Hup, Florian, on with you!"

Florian snorted, threw himself into his collar, and then with a jingle of the harness bells they were whirling away into the storm, retracing the route Watson had just trudged.

"John," she shouted at him above the noise of the wind as they raced along. "What are you mixed up in? Why are you here, on my doorstep, of all places in the world?"

He wondered how he would ever explain it all to her.

"It's a very, very long story," he sighed.

She threw a look at him. "I haven't heard a word from you in years. Since – that night - before you went off to war. How did you find me? How in the name of the Almighty did you find me here?"

"That's another very long story, Abbie. If we can get my friend patched up well enough, I would actually love for you to hear it from his lips. Because, believe me, he would tell the tale far better than I."

_And, believe me, I'd like to hear it, too_, he added silently, exhaustedly, to himself.

And then, through the wall of white snowfall, they were pulling up in front of the dark shape that was old Greben's barn.

###


	7. Chapter 7

Simza had pulled straw over herself and Holmes to try to keep out the cold, which by now was intense enough that the very straw itself seemed frozen, with a silver sheen upon it. She shivered and pulled herself closer to Holmes, glad for the warmth of his body next to hers as they huddled under her cloak, but increasingly worried for him.

He seemed to be sleeping, his head heavy on her shoulder, but his breathing was ragged, it seemed to her. He had lost far too much blood, and today's exertions – their hike through another endless forest, finally reaching this inadequate shelter – had been too much for him, she thought.

"Holmes," she whispered, squeezing his good shoulder gently.

He drew in a breath and opened his eyes; tried to raise his head and pulled in another sharp breath of pain. She massaged his arm soothingly. "I am sorry. I know you should rest, but I fear your falling asleep in this cold."

"It's all right, my dear." His voice was weak but steady. "I can't help but think that I am much diminished from the man you met only a few nights ago."

She sighed and kissed his forehead, and smoothed back his hair, black as night. "No, my friend, much the opposite, I think." She felt him smile, his lips against her neck.

Had it only been a few nights ago? It seemed a lifetime. Holmes had invaded her life at the Shush Club, with his damnable dancing eyes that _saw everything_, laying her open to his gaze, piercing through her game from the outset. She, who read people for a living, had not been able to read _him_ – not on that first night, anyway. He surrounded himself with far too many walls, she thought then, and she couldn't break through them to intuit his heart, what made him the soul that he was. She couldn't see him as she effortlessly saw so many other men. Other marks.

And that intrigued her, aroused something in her.

He was a dangerous man, she knew. That much had been clear on that first night, when he battled the Cossack assassin and saved her life. She had seen few men who could fight like him. And oh, yes, this man acted the clown. But as she had quietly watched and absorbed his actions, his demeanor, his expressions and what lay beneath them, moving and shifting like his eyes, like currents in the sea, she knew that he was not _Le Fou, _the Madman,the Fool. Not he.

He played it well, so very well. But that was not who he was.

No, she thought; if she could assign any card in the arcana to him, it would be _Le Bateleur_. The Mountebank. The Magician. With the lemniscate of life and action writhing above him in the air, as clearly as if she could see it with her body's eyes. Shapeshifter, trickster, wielder of quicksilver thought and tongue. World changer.

Revealer.

He moved a little beside her; she thought it had grown colder just in the past few minutes. His breath was warm against her throat.

"Holmes. I'm going to sing to you."

"Yes."

"Are you in pain?"

"No."

She knew he lied.

"Listen to my voice and try to rest. The doctor will return soon. He will find help."

"I know."

She smiled, and her chilled fingers brushed the hair beside his ear. "Rest then. Hear my song. Come with me; dream with me."

She found in her memory a tune from her childhood, a song of the endless road and the rolling fields, with the warmth of sunshine over the nodding heads of ripe wheat and blue flax flowers. A song in her own tongue, and she knew that he would not understand, but that he would.

She sang, and it seemed to her that she drew him with her into the place she could not name, the place that was between the worlds, the safe place where she had always been able to escape, since before she could remember.

His breathing eased and slowed. As the barn grew colder, Simza's song trailed away and she dreamed, and Holmes dreamed, and they dreamed together, as the storm outside raged and seemed to envelop all things.

_The violins reeled and laughed, and the dancing went on and on. The doctor was dancing – madly, badly – and the People, dressed in their most festive clothes, danced with him and around him. The doctor and his friend – they were Simza's friends, and Tomas' friends, and so they were friends of the People. The word had spread that they were here to help Ren__é__, to bring him back. It was cause for a celebration, so celebrate they did, and the wine flowed like water, and the fires burned bright and the endless dance spun on. _

_She had left the dance to find the dark-eyed man. "Holmes," he called himself; she rolled the strange English name on her tongue. She hadn't known his name when he had saved her from the Cossack; hadn't thought she would ever see him again after his fight with the assassin had effectively ended her tenuous fortune-telling job at the Shush Club. They hadn't wanted her back after that, and she didn't really blame them. London had been a fruitless quest for her brother; now that the dark man had brought news of him, she knew that Ren__é__ could not be in London. It had been time to go back to her People, to her family, and to plan the next stage of her search. _

_And then, suddenly, the handsome dark one, her erstwhile savior, was here, at the People's encampment, bearing her bag, returning the belongings she'd thought she had lost forever - and in the company of the tall blond man she had seen only briefly at the club. _

_Simza watched them closely, saw their bond, studied it with the most minute attention. The dark one's mind was as elusive as a fish flashing through murky waters, hard to read - but the tall, fair man was an open book to her. She knew almost immediately who Watson was and what drove him and what his deepest thoughts were. She saw the wedding band on his finger, and she saw how he looked at his friend as the firelight limned the fine line of Holmes' jaw. _

_She saw all these things despite Holmes' best efforts to distract and divert her, as if he could feel her probing attention and sought to send it careening off in different directions. _

_She resisted. _

_And she could feel Holmes studying _her_, which was not a wholly comfortable feeling. _

_He was sitting in the firelit dark on the back step of her father's caravan, watching the dancing from a distance, with a slight smile on his lips as he watched Watson whirl and stumble. _

"_Holmes," she said, and he looked at her, the smile still on his face. She felt something stir within her, and knew how this night would end. _

"_Tired of dancing already?" he said, and she shrugged and sat down beside him. _

"_You don't dance?" _

"_I've been known to dance. I've even been known to teach dancing. But not like this," he indicated the whirling, colorful scene around the bonfire; Watson lifted up now on two strong men's shoulders, brandishing a jug of wine. "This, it seems to me, is from the heart of a people. The music is astonishing – one could write many books about just the glissandi, the improvisation. It is glorious. Your people are really quite fascinating." _

_She laughed, half joking. "Fascinating. As if you are a scientist and we are under your microscope." _

_He was suddenly serious. "I intended no insult. We're grateful for your hospitality, for your food and wine, for your tents tonight…for all of this. And for your help. I know what it means, what you risk." _

_His eyes were lit by the dancing flames. The full moon sailed high overhead, eclipsing all but the brightest stars. The violins sang on. _

_She leaned forward then and kissed him, suddenly and savagely. _

"_I want you," she breathed into his mouth. His hands found her hair and he pulled her more deeply into the kiss. She tasted him, the sweetness of the wine and the heat of him._

"_I thought you'd never ask," he said, when she finally broke away, panting, her lips parted. And she knew she would never resist him again. _

_She untied the orange scarf from her neck and draped it around his, then took his hand and led him to her tent as the People's wild music spiraled and crescendoed to the moonlit sky. _


	8. Chapter 8

Watson heaved the barn door open.

"Holmes!" he called, raising his voice above the keen of the blowing storm.

There was no answer.

Abbie, who had seized her black bag and some blankets from the back seat of the sleigh, followed Watson into the barn. Though in their haste they had not thought to bring a torch, the barn was dimly illuminated by the weird snow-light, a reflection from millions of falling crystal flakes, that came in through the open door.

Holmes and Simza had moved from their previous position. _Where were they?_ Watson's tired eyes searched for them in the dimness.

"There!" Abbie cried, pointing, and he finally made it out – a dark smudge that could only be the edge of Simza's long cloak, protruding from a pile of straw.

Smart girl, he thought. Any insulation would have helped them stay as warm as they could. Had it been enough?

Quickly digging through the straw, Watson uncovered the chilled and deathly still forms of Sim and Holmes.

"Sim!" he shouted, shaking her, and to his relief she opened her eyes and looked up at him, blinking. "Holmes!" He drew back her cloak, and there was Sherlock Holmes, pale as a ghost, wrapped in Simza's arms, and apparently deeply unconscious.

Sim looked down at Holmes and shook him gently. "Holmes," she whispered shakily, and Watson, his hand on her shoulder, became aware she was shivering uncontrollably.

Holmes did not respond.

"I'm sorry," Sim managed, tears starting in her eyes. "I must have fallen asleep. I'm so sorry – is he…?"

"It's all right, Sim, it's all right. We're here." He felt Holmes' throat for a pulse, and felt a jolt of indescribable relief when he found a weak heartbeat. "He's alive. You did all that you could, and you kept him warm. Let us take it from here."

"Come along, my dear," said Abbie, helping Sim to her feet and wrapping her in a blanket as Watson gently rolled Holmes onto his back and assessed the medical situation. Abbie knelt down on the other side and drew in a quick gasp as she took in Holmes' bloodstained shirt and vest and the tangled, bloody knot that was Watson's scarf.

Sim hovered forlornly, suddenly without a part to play, and watched them.

"We can't do much for him here, and it's growing colder by the moment," Abbie said firmly. "John, can you and I, together, lift him? You've been limping yourself," she said, with a meaningful glance at his leg. "Are you hurt too?"

"Nothing more than superficial wounds. The leg injury is an old one."

Holmes was a dead weight as Watson maneuvered him slightly, got one arm under his shoulders, trying to keep stress off the wounded shoulder as much as he could. Finally, with Abbie's added support under Holmes' knees, Watson was able to stand.

Watson's heart clenched again as he mentally calculated how much weight Holmes must have lost since the beginning of this whole mad adventure – he'd remarked then that the detective was looking thinner than usual, and Holmes, of course, had answered with one of his patented sneers.

Now he felt like he was carrying a wraith-like approximation of the real Holmes.

Out in the storm again, Watson and Abbie carried their burden to the sleigh. Watson clambered into the back seat and, with Abbie's help, gently deposited Holmes across the length of it. He arranged a blanket over his friend, and then another one that Abbie handed to him. Sliding his knee under Holmes' head to raise it up a little, he checked the detective's pulse and breathing again.

So far, so good.

Sim and Abbie climbed into the front seats, and Abbie roused the big, patient horse with a flick of the reins.

Sim peered over the back of the seat, looking at Holmes with concern in her dark eyes.

"Get on, Florian!" Abbie shouted, and the gelding snorted and leaped into action, carrying them at last toward warmth and, Watson dearly hoped, safety.

Holmes gasped and groaned as the sleigh slalomed along the now-well-drifted road, and Watson's hand found the detective's good hand and grasped it. "It's all right, Holmes," he said comfortingly – and far more confidently than he really felt. "You're going to be all right. Just a few more minutes now and we'll get you out of this cold."

Holmes' hand tightened slightly on his, and Watson pulled the blankets more securely around him. He became aware he, himself, was so numb with cold he could barely feel his feet or hands any more.

The dash to Abbie's house was not a long one, with the big horse covering ground in a trice. Soon they saw the glowing windows through the snow, and suddenly the sleigh was pulling up sharp at the front door. Thank God, Watson thought, his hand on Holmes' cold forehead.

Abbie leaped out of the front seat and turned to Simza, who was tumbling out the other side. "Do you know horses?" she asked the gypsy woman.

Simza, exhausted as she was, pulled herself up straight and looked Abbie in the eye through the blowing snow. "Yes, of course," she snapped.

"I'd say she does," Watson murmured, gently maneuvering the unconscious Holmes so Abbie could begin to slide him out of the seat. Abbie shot him a curious look. "I'll explain later."

"Then, my dear, could you take care of Florian and the sleigh? The barn is around the back – and thank you. Then please come right in the house and we can take care of you."

Simza's eyes lost some of their defiant flash as she realized this woman was going to be polite to her, and she nodded and took Florian's reins - casting one more worried look at the deathly still Holmes as Watson and Abbie lifted him out of the sleigh and began to carry him toward the front door.

Abbie pushed the unlocked door open with her shoulder, and together she and Watson carried the limp Holmes into the warm house.

"In here," Abbie said, breathing hard, nodding toward the open door to the bedroom. "Let's get him onto the bed."

The bedroom was dark, but Watson could make out a large iron bed in the lamplight from the parlor. Together they deposited Holmes atop the quilt, and Abbie turned quickly, fumbling for a match to light the lamps.

"We must get these filthy clothes off him," she said grimly, as the lamplight finally made clear the sight of the thin, dirty detective and the dark blood stains on his shirt, vest and the mangled scarf. Watson nodded and made a move to help her, but she stopped him abruptly, blocking him deftly with her arm. "No, _you_ need to clean up, too, before you help with anything, Doctor. You and the girl are just as filthy as he is. I'll not have you here working on him until you wash yourself – and well."

Watson looked down at himself helplessly, and knew she was right. "My clothes," he said, looking down at the ruin of his shirt and trousers. "These are all I have…"

A hint of shadow passed over Abbie's face as her quick fingers worked to undo the knots in the scarf binding Holmes' right arm to his chest. "Yes," she said, looking intently at Holmes, avoiding Watson's eyes. "We'll deal with them later. Go into the wardrobe there – you will find some clothes belonging to my husband. I think you probably wear the same size or close to it."

Was there a catch in her voice? Watson stared at her. "Your…?"

"John, just please take the clothes and be on with it. I'll be needing your assistance as soon as you're cleaned up." Her sharp tone brooked no interference.

Watson opened the wardrobe, and there, pushed to the end, after a few dresses, one nice gown and a few underthings, was a small collection of men's clothing – two suits, some shirts and some trousers. Tucked far in a corner, he made out some sort of –what was it? A farming implement? He moved the man's clothing aside, and saw that it was a small pickaxe. His brain was too weary to deal with why Abbie would keep a pickaxe in her wardrobe.

Or the fact that she was married…of course she would be.

He selected a shirt and trousers and looked over at Holmes and Abbie. Holmes' eyes had fluttered open and he was looking up at the ceiling of the bedroom.

"Holmes," said Watson. "Are you with us again?"

Holmes tried to raise his head, focusing on Watson. "Watson?" he said, his voice an even more hoarse approximation of its usual mellow rasp.

"Don't try to speak, Mr. Holmes," Abbie said soothingly. Her hands were still trying to work the scarf's knots open. She leaned back with an exasperated sigh, then reached for her medical bag. Rummaging in its depths, she pulled out a pair of scissors. "I'll need to cut this off you," she told him.

A look of alarm passed over Holmes' face. "No!" he said, in some agitation, and tried to pull away from her. "Don't cut it."

"Mr. Holmes! Please stay calm. I won't hurt you."

"Holmes, it's all right. Let her cut it off." Watson moved to the left side of the bed, reaching for Holmes' hand.

"No," Holmes insisted, pulling away, eyes bright and feverish in his grit- and blood-covered face. "_Don't cut it!_"

He covered the scarf with his left hand and glared with febrile anxiety at both of them. "Please," he said, closing his eyes and suddenly going limp, as if the brief act of defiance had used up all the energy he had left.

"All right, all right…" Abbie said in a placating tone, putting the scissors down. She looked up at Watson, and he shrugged helplessly. "I'll work further on unknotting it. It's not worth upsetting you – I need you to stay calm."

She shot a glance over at Watson. "_You_, John, go and clean up – _now_."

Her small hands, Watson saw, had finally undone the major knot in the scarf, and Holmes winced but relaxed perceptibly as she undid the last bits of bloody, knitted tangle and pulled it out gently from beneath him. She placed it carefully in a crumpled heap beneath the bed.

Watson heard footsteps and the sound of the front door, and Simza suddenly appeared, hesitating at the bedroom door as she took in the sight of Holmes on the bed and Abbie working near him.

"Out!" Abbie ordered sharply, and Simza halted with hurt in her eyes.

Abbie looked around and softened her tone. "Sorry, my dear – but you and John need to clean up considerably before will I allow you in here. And I will need some hot water – could one of you go to the kitchen and see if you can manage? _After_ you wash. Go into my wardrobe there, and you may borrow one of my dresses."

She looked down at her own hands. "And - the doctor should practice what she preaches. Mr. Holmes, I shall need to leave you for a moment – my own hands are not the most cleanly of instruments right now."

Holmes sighed, and opened his eyes again, fixing his gaze on Abbie. "So sorry, my dear, I don't know where my manners are," he said weakly. "Very nice to meet you at last, Doctor Schuller. I've read so much about you and your husband."

Abbie's mouth fell open at that, and she and Watson exchanged glances. All Watson could do was to shrug again in complete bewilderment, shaking his head, as Holmes let his eyes close again, the suggestion of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

###


	9. Chapter 9

"John, please hold him steady – he's been fighting me since I began." Abbie's voice was worried and low as she bent over the prone figure of Sherlock Holmes on the bed, holding a wet cloth in her hand and attempting once again to clean the area around the ugly wound in his shoulder.

Watson knelt on the other side of the bed, sweat beading on his brow as he shifted his hands slightly on Holmes' good shoulder and chest, holding him firmly down. "He needs more morphine," he told her. "He's still half-conscious, and I can assure you that he's feeling everything you do."

Abbie shot him a look before returning her gaze to her patient, who moaned and twisted restlessly in the soft glow of the lamplight. Outside the windows, the storm answered his moan with a keening intensity of its own, shaking the very walls of the little house. "I've already given him far more than is enough. I don't understand it – he should be deeply asleep and not feeling any of this."

"Believe me," Watson gritted, applying gentle but firm pressure as Holmes tried to thrash again, "you have no idea what his capacity for morphine is. Or any number of other substances. In the past few months alone…" His voice trailed off as a wave of something like guilt crashed over him. When he'd moved out of their shared quarters in Baker Street, he knew, Holmes had turned back to cocaine with a vengeance – _and "vengeance" may well be the operative word here_, Watson thought grimly. He shook his head, not wanting to follow that particular thread of thought to its conclusion.

To counter the cocaine binges, which kept Holmes thrumming and alert for days on end as he pursued his cases – especially his damnable fixation on Moriarty – he would obtain morphine to make his body rest and finally sleep, so that he could function. Then he would go back on the cocaine and start the cycle all over again. Without Watson to intervene, the mania had continued unabated. Watson had weaned Holmes off the drugs once, earlier in their partnership – but once he'd left Holmes and their lodgings for the pleasures of married life, it was as if the healing had never happened.

Holmes was so damned convinced, Watson ruminated, that he knew how his mind and body operated, and that he could handle the drugs as long as he applied them to himself in what he considered a scientific manner. Watson had been contacted by Mrs. Hudson more than once over the past few months when she had found her lodger insensate on the floor, his pulse racing, limbs twitching - and once with a thin trickle of blood running from his nose.

It had been Watson's deepest fear that he would come to the flat one day and find Holmes cold and dead – and that he would blame himself forever after.

And Watson had watched Holmes closely during the course of this current case. Clearly he had been in the grip of some mood-elevating intoxicant (not formaldehyde, as Holmes had joked at the time, trying to divert Watson's attention from his real very real symptoms) the day before the wedding. The day Watson had visited 221B and had witnessed the fruits of Holmes' obsessive fixation on Moriarty, including the frightening spider's nest of red threads in Watson's old rooms. Had his dearest friend's incomparable mind finally been overcome, Watson had wondered at the time?

But once the hunt was in play and the case in motion, he mused, there had been no clear signs of drug use. Holmes was so good at hiding it now, though, and functioned so normally on the drugs that Watson really had no idea.

He glanced down now at Holmes's left arm – they had divested the wounded detective of his clothing, begrimed with the muck of blood and battle, and had managed to clean him up a little. The pale arm was mottled with blue and greenish needle scars, but they all looked at least days old, possibly older.

Holmes' eyelids fluttered and he rested his head momentarily against Watson's arm; Watson put the back of his hand to the detective's forehead, smoothing back the matted raven hair, and felt the radiating heat. _His fever is growing worse_, he thought helplessly. With all the advances of modern medicine, the treatment of deep wounds such as Holmes' had not improved much since the last war. How many good men in Afghanistan had he lost to wounds even lesser than this, once infection, fever and gangrene had set in?

It was, of course, the barbaric wound that Moriarty had inflicted in Holmes' right shoulder that was the main enemy tonight, and that needed attention first. To a lesser extent, the splinter wound in his leg would also need cleaning and treatment – because that one, too, could kill. Watson, exhausted as he was, had allowed Abbie to take charge of the procedure, fearing that his tired eyes and fingers might slip and hurt Holmes as he tried to help him.

Abbie had always been the better surgeon, anyway – she had been the only woman in their medical school classes, and Watson couldn't help but admire the way she persevered, honing her skills and art even as she bravely stood up to doubting professors and heckling classmates. Watson had once broken the nose of one of those classmates – he'd almost forgotten the incident; Henderson, was it? The cackling little mustachioed jackanape had carried it too far one evening in the dining commons, insulting Abbie with a filthy word to her face, and as she had stood there in shocked, painful silence while the lounging male students grinned behind their hands, Watson had flattened the cad with a single punch, and had watched as Henderson crawled away, bleeding and in disgrace. From that moment on, no one else in the class had insulted Abbie – to her face, at least – and she and Watson had become close friends.

_Too close, one might say_, he mused, his overtired mind drifting…

He was brought back to the present very suddenly by a sharp cry from Holmes, who groaned and fought him feebly again as Abbie tried to debrade the terrible shoulder wound. Awake, Holmes might have soldiered through the pain with his customary stoicism; half-unconscious as he was, he had no such mental control. "Hold him, please," Abbie said breathlessly. "There is debris inside the wound cavity, and infection is already setting in. I must get it cleaned out before it grows worse." She looked sharply at Watson. "This is a very cruel wound – what in God's world has happened to this man? The muscle is torn through, the bones are dislocated – was he caught and dragged by some farm implement?"

"No," said Watson grimly. "I wish it were that easy an explanation. No, I will share with you that he was tortured, by the criminal we are pursuing. With a metal hook. When I finally reached him, the hook was still in the wound."

He shuddered momentarily at the memory – _it was just last night_. So much had happened since then.

She stared at him. "Tortured? With a _hook_? What sort of fiend would do this?"

"A fiend indeed. One whom we are trying to run to ground." Watson watched as Abbie smoothed the matted hair from Holmes face, dipped her cloth in the water bowl and pressed it comfortingly against Holmes' hot brow. "So far, the villain been winning, and we have been on the losing side. It's all an extraordinary story, and I don't know that I can adequately explain all of it. It's a tale for when we have all rested - and when this operation is done."

"This puncture wound goes almost all the way through his shoulder," Abbie said, resolutely returning to her work on Holmes, who tried valiantly again to resist her and pull away. "It's a wonder that he survived it, let alone traveling with you and walking here through this storm. He's lost a lot of blood; he is very weak. John, I would not want you to think this will be an easy task, bringing him back to health again. If I can't stop the infection from spreading…" She cast him a significant look. "He could lose his arm. Or his life." She gently probed the wound again, prompting another strangled cry from Holmes.

"You are sure you have no chloroform? No ether?" Watson gasped, using all of his remaining strength to try to keep Holmes pinned down.

"I used all that I had on the victims of a bad wagon accident last week; broken bones, children involved. I ordered more, but with this bad weather all my shipments were delayed. Had I known of his…tolerance for morphine, I would have given him brandy beforehand. Now, however, he's not conscious enough to drink. I'm afraid this will become more painful, too." She peered at the wound in the lamplight, then reached for a small forceps from the tools she had spread out on the bedside table. "There is a small piece of cloth inside; I can see it, amid the laudable pus." She grimaced and looked at Holmes' pale, sweat-beaded face. "Sorry, my dear man. This IS going to hurt."

Holmes' shriek of agony echoed through the room, and Watson again fought to hold him still while Abbey probed inside the wound with the metal instrument.

"Stop it!"

Watson and Abbey looked up in surprise. Simza – who had shouted – was standing in the doorway, dressed only in one of Abbie's long white cotton nightdresses, her eyes wide as she took in the tableau on the bed. In the lamplight, with her dark Raphaelite locks loosened, she looked like the very figure of an angel to Watson.

"She will need to leave," Abbie whispered to Watson, and, raising her voice, "My dear, you'll have to leave this room and allow us the space to work to save your friend's life."

Simza started forward urgently. "No, I can help. Please, please, let me help him."

"Sim," Watson said as kindly as he could, while using most of his strength to quell the thrashing Holmes. "You'll need to leave this to us…"

But Sim was at the bedside, looking up at Watson with her enormous brown eyes – eyes that were full of tears and empathy. "Please, doctor, I can calm him. He is in such pain. I can do this. Let me help him while the lady doctor works."

Watson would never know if it was his weariness and befuddled mind, or if Sim really did have some kind of mental influence over him, but he suddenly found himself letting Holmes' head fall back on the pillow, moving away from the bed and going to sit in a chair not far from the bedside. Abbie, looking slightly dubious at this turn of events, paused in her work to allow the gypsy to take Watson's place at the bedside.

And then Sim was there, her hands on Holmes' face, stroking the planes and lines of it as she knelt beside the bed, and then in the air there was a crooning, mellifluous sound.

Sim was singing. She stopped for a moment, caressed Holmes' face again and whispered, "Holmes."

The injured man shuddered once, opened his eyes and looked directly at Simza, as Watson watched in wonder.

"I'm here, Holmes. I know this hurts you. The doctors must do their work. But I will take you away again. Will you go with me?" She gazed into his eyes, brown into brown, and as Watson looked on in disbelief, Holmes reached out his good arm and grasped her hand, closing his eyes again. Sim took up the thread of the song again, and Holmes sighed and, astoundingly, appeared to relax a little.

Abbie murmured, not quite under her breath, "John…what is happening?"

"Let's let them be. It's worth a try. Anything that might help him…"

"Is it some sort of gypsy mesmerism - a magic trick?"

"Whatever it is, if it helps him, if it helps quell his pain, then I am all for it," Watson said. "Give them a moment."

Abbie said nothing, but nodded and sat back, the red-stained forceps in hand and with one eyebrow raised, taking in the scene before her with wondering eyes.

The beautiful tune wove on and on, and Sim crawled up on the bed and lay down next to Holmes, her eyes and hands never leaving his face as the song continued, twining into Eastern threnody and lament, plaiting shadow and sunlight and storm.

Watson's overtired brain wafted along with her song, and it seemed to him that he was at the gate of some fair land, still in the bedroom and yet not in it any longer. He found himself overlooking a glorious meadow, sprinkled with the most beautiful flowers he had ever seen, and then a seascape of water and sand – and high above, where white birds wheeled, the pink and purple of a magnificent sunset.

_Or was it a sunrise…?_

"John." Abbie's voice intruded into his dream. "John, look." Her tone was full of awe.

He shook the silvery webs of the dream from his mind and came back into the golden lamplight of the little bedroom. He looked at the bed.

Holmes and Simza were sleeping, their foreheads touching, fingers of his left hand and her right interlaced. Holmes' face was as peaceful as Watson had ever seen it, the lines and creases softened, the strain of the past days seemingly gone. He looked almost like a boy with his face scraped by some tumble down a hill, and there was the slightest hint of a smile on his face as he breathed easy and slow.

Abbie was holding a bloody, tiny piece of cloth in her forceps, looking as if she had just witnessed some sort of miracle.

"He slept through it," she said in amazement. "I was able to reach inside and get the cloth out, as well as some other debris. He never felt it."

Watson stood and limped to the side of the bed, looking down upon the pair.

"Astonishing," he agreed, and felt a small twinge – _what the hell am I feeling? _– as he took in the simple rapport, the quiet trust, that he could almost _feel_ between Holmes and the girl.

_We had that once, you and I, I think, _he reflected sadly.

_But then again, _my_ singing voice, well, that wouldn't have soothed you now, would it have? _

He almost cackled at his own poor joke, and caught himself before he sounded like a madman. Abbie was still looking at the man and woman on the bed and, thankfully, not at him. _I am past weary, _he reminded himself. All these things would seem…well, probably odder and even more fantastic in the morning.

"Are they lovers?" Abbie asked, too obviously trying not to seem curious as she busied herself with her instruments. She packed some of them up and reached into her bag, drawing out a bottle of carbolic.

Watson hesitated.

"Probably. Maybe. I…don't know. I've rather lost touch with a lot of what Holmes is up to, at the moment."

He took another step and reeled a little, catching his balance. Abbie looked up and frowned at him.

"John, you are exhausted. Sit down in that chair. I'm going to apply carbolic to this wound, which I hope will halt the infection, and then try to stitch some of the flesh together so it will heal and not leave such a big scar. It's going to be an ugly scar, though, whatever I can do." She shook her head sadly. "The evil of men – I cannot understand it. Who would do such a thing to one's fellow man?"

"It was purely evil. That's why we are on this criminal's trail. And he plans worse things, which will affect many more people. That is why we are here, Abbie."

"But that is a tale for the morning, now, isn't it?" She looked at him kindly and with some concern. "You are here and you are safe, and I am doing all I can for your friend. I have seen some things tonight that have opened my eyes, and for that I am grateful. We can all talk tomorrow. Now close your eyes and rest, John, and I will finish my work here on your friend."

The storm outside built up to a crescendo of thunderous wind and driving snow, but the lamp in the little bedroom burned bright, casting Abbie's shadow high on the wall as she carefully wielded her needle.

And outside, far off in the forest, other shadows moved, silent in the storm.

Watson's eyes closed at last, and he slept, dreamless and deep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** So sorry for the slight delay – back again with a new chapter, and I hope you like it! This is where Sim takes Holmes as he's being treated by Abbie, and I leave it up to you if you believe it is magic, mesmerism or simply the meanderings of a feverish mind. What do _you_ think? I welcome your thoughts and reviews. _

Sherlock Holmes knew he was being mesmerized, led into a dreaming trance by a rare practitioner of the art form (or science, some would call it, he mused) - and yet he trusted Simza and allowed her to lead him. Once again she took him high above the unending agony of his wounds, and they walked together in a shadowland for what seemed to him a very long time. He felt oddly content, with her beside him, and he felt for an instant or two that Watson was there, too, although he couldn't see him in the surrounding brightness-that-was-dark.

He pondered that conundrum – how could an all-enveloping darkness be so bright and so alive?

He had no answers, and yet he felt somehow that all the answers were here.

There were other beings here, too – he sensed their presence and their welcome, even after Watson's fleeting presence was gone. It occurred to him that maybe he was dead, well and truly dead, this time, and that this was what it was like, life after life, and that he might wander here forever, a shade among shades. The thought made him neither happy nor unhappy; it simply was.

As soon as he thought it, he intuited (rather than saw or felt – because his eyes and body didn't seem to be working properly - and yet he felt he could see more than he had ever seen before) Sim holding his hand tighter, and smiling at him.

_We are not dead_, she said, without saying it, and he seemed to receive her thought directly. _This is not the land of souls – no one living can go there yet. This is the world between worlds, and we create it, what is in it, with our thoughts, with the living energy of our dreams and our reveries. It is at once within us and outside our ken, familiar yet foreign, far away yet inside us. It is where all the stories of mankind live, the art, the music, all the architecture of every city that ever was or shall be, the essence of our beings and ourselves. _

_Fascinating_, said Holmes, and he meant it, and felt her delight at his reaction. He looked around him with his not-eyes, at the blackness that was not black, but that pulsed with all the colors known to human eye, and more besides.

_Create something then_, he thought to her, and she laughed with joy and told him, _you can do it too_. _Holmes. _

And suddenly the world changed.

They were back – back in time, on that night when the gypsy bonfires still burned brightly, embers swirling into the night sky as the violins laughed and sang. Simza's hand was warm in his as she lifted the olive-colored velvet flap and led him through the People's communal tent, deserted now save for a few small children dozing on piles of pillows, waiting for their elders to return from the dance.

Simza turned to face him and brushed her lips butterfly-soft across his stubbled cheek, breathing in the taste of him. "Not here," she said teasingly. "My tent is just over there…"

He caught her small face in one hand and caressed her full lips with his thumb, parting them slightly before pressing his mouth to hers and pulling her to him. He felt the surge of his desire as his tongue met hers and they breathed into each other; he roughened his grasp and ran his hand down her spine as he felt her arch toward him. She gasped and he felt her mold her body to his, and he wanted her so much…and…the music…

… _the music was loud, so loud; it wrapped itself around his brain and his being; it joined with his arousal, it brought his walls down…and suddenly a part of his control, his control, his control…slipped away…_

And in an instant his brain opened up and let Everything in.

The shock of it, the flood of it, never ceased to astonish him, as much as it also destroyed him. His fragile sense of control was, quite obviously, a sham, and his poor brain was still as sick and helpless as it ever had been. Had he not mastered it at last, his _bête noir_, his monster, the ravening thing that harried his brain and, since childhood, had threatened to overcome it?

For the very thing that made him Sherlock Holmes, the man who sees Everything, was the thing that also gnawed at the edges of his sanity and could reduce him – the moment his blockades were down - to a shivering ruin. Holmes had carefully constructed, throughout the course of his life, a series of mental exercises, every one of them as patiently fashioned, sharpened and honed as his Oriental fighting practice. All of them designed to create the boundaries that helped him shut Everything out, or at least to control his brain enough to let him survive, to give him the semblance of being a normal person. To shut out – at least enough to let him function normally – the sights, the sounds, the smells, the touch, the feelings, Everything that crowded into his brain, every waking moment of every single day of his existence.

But his carefully built barriers had failed him yet again. He would never be normal.

And Holmes knew _oh please not now not again _that he was lost, the moment was lost - and this woman too was lost to him, as so many others had been.

_Simza's surprised, hurt face as he suddenly pulled away from her. The woman scent of her arousal, the green flecks in her dark eyes that caught the lamplight. The pounding, beautiful pain of the music – his brain naming each note and assigning it a color – a green D, yellow C's in a row, magenta E's, rondo and arpeggio and cadenza rising and falling in great mountains and valleys of sound and hue. The jangle of jewelry…the sound of harsh men's voices urging on the dance…Watson's inebriated laughter…Watson…The child breathing sleep softly on the pillows…The drink decanter – copper, it was, not brass…The lamps – lit about three hours ago, judging from the wicks…Sim's fragrance – not Parisian, probably German, where would a gypsy buy German perfume? The caravan must come here through Germany…slightly off its peak so it must have been months ago, probably in Köln… The smell of garlic and paprika…Hungarian paprika, mellow with a smoky sweet edge to it, perhaps from Szeged or the region…The unique black and red geometric pattern of the woven rug beneath their feet, with its stylized animal patterns… bokhara, Hyderabad, probably 1790s…STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT…_

He closed his eyes and shuddered, trying in vain to fight it, battling the old urge to run away, to get away from the stimuli, the hammering, overwhelming waves that crashed upon him. His desire for Simza was a cruel joke, nothing more. She would be repulsed, as all the others throughout his life had been (except for three…Adler, dear bohemian Adler; she had understood, had known the heart of him…and Mycroft, who suffered much the same illness, but controlled it in his own peculiar ways, shutting himself off from humanity. And Watson, his lodestar, his haven, the quiet and always steady center of his world…).

"Holmes," said Simza, then, and her voice was soft. He realized that he had not only pushed himself away from her, but that his eyes were flickering from one side of the tent to the other; his breathing was harsh and he was still shaking. He must look to her like a madman.

"Holmes, please, look at me."

She was still there, and there was no repulsion in her eyes; only affection and concern. He concentrated all his being on the touch of her hand on his arm, and in a few moments it was better. He forced himself to look at her, although every fiber of his consciousness wanted to look away.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, and realized he was repeating it like a mantra. She stroked his arm as if he were a skittish colt. He steadied his breath, mantra working; all right, it was all right, she had not fled. She looked at him deeply, then pulled his face to her throat and simply held him there for a long time, while he rested his cheek against the warm softness of her and his heartbeat slowed, and he silently, painstakingly raised his frail blockades again, curbing his senses, shutting out just enough of the world and its painful maelstrom.

And Simza was still there.

Much later, Holmes and Simza lay together in her tent, their naked bodies limned by the golden light of the lamps, as their hands explored the map of each other. Their lovemaking had been gentle, then frenzied, until finally Holmes had consumed himself and his poor mad brain in her lush, eloquent body and his desire.

Now she looked at him, one hand caressing his face as he closed his eyes and drowsed. "Tell me," she said. "You, man with a face like this, with a mind like yours, with a hero's notion to save the world. Why do you hate yourself so?"

He opened his eyes and blinked. "What sort of question is that?" All semblance of drowsiness was gone now.

"You heard it."

"You," he murmured, fingering her hair, "have the potential to cause me great consternation."

"You," she pointed out gently, "are deflecting the question."

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the tent, the angles of it as it peaked and disappeared into darkness. "Indeed," he said. "It's what I have spent a lifetime doing." He wondered why he would confide this to a woman he had just met days ago, no matter how intimate they had just been.

"I think I know you," she said soberly. "You _could _close yourself off completely, retreat from it all, yet you do not. You ride out like a warrior each day, with your sword, and you shield your mind as you have since childhood, but sometimes the shield fails, and it all fails, and everything rushes in…"

He turned to her and stared. "How..how do you know this?"

She smiled at him, a sad smile. "Holmes, I am _chovexani_, the People's soothsayer. It was born in me, and in my mother before me. It is a gift, and a curse. I must exist outside the boundaries of the People and their ways, and it is who I am. It is why I could lie here with you tonight – any other unmarried woman of the People would be kept pure, guarded by her family. But _chovexani _may choose whom she wishes to be with."

Simza turned onto her back, and a tear slipped from the corner of the eye Holmes could see. "The _chovexani_ suffers for her freedom, though. Like yours, my mind is open to…so much. I saw it in you tonight, and I felt your pain and your fear and your sadness, for it is mine, too. I sometimes do not know if soothsaying is magic, as we would say, or merely a sort of deduction, as you would have it."

"I don't wish to insult your beliefs, Sim, but you may have gleaned that I have no great affection for the notion of magic," he said lightly, to try to hide his wonder at her insight. "Though I do believe that this world is very full of a vast number of whimsical and rather wondrous things."

"Yes, and we are quite blessed to be alive in it," she said, so seriously that he couldn't help but smile. "You feel this too. You love this world, no matter how much it pains you. It is why you want to save it, to fight for justice, to help me find my brother, to battle the evil ones who would hurt your friend."

"You _are_ quite a soothsayer." He tried to keep his voice steady, for this flow of her perceptions had shaken him to the core.

"I can teach you things, Holmes," she said. "Many powerful ways to close out the noise and the storms of this world. Perhaps it was a kind of fate that brought us together, here, now. Because you must learn to protect yourself, to fight the great battle that is to come."

"You've intuited that too."

"I know it, yes."

"Then teach me," Holmes said. "Because the battle is upon us, and it is one that we must win, or everything is lost."

She turned back to him, and her eyes were shining, and he could not tell if they held tears or joy, or both. "First love me again, Holmes. Our night has just begun, and we can still have a moment."

"Or, preferably, longer," he said, and ran his hand lightly down her golden throat, her neck, her perfect breast.

Outside the tent, the stars whirled, and Watson drank deep red wine with the men, and the women sang, and somewhere out in the fields a fox hunted, low in the grass, a silent shadow in the night. And Sherlock Holmes walked with Simza in the all-encompassing darkness that somehow pulsed with light, and saw it all.


	11. Chapter 11

Blowing snow streamed and skittered into the old _Postamt_ as Frau Acht, postmistress of Hasliberg, threw her shoulder against the door to close it against the bitter wind. _My old bones are not up to this exercise, and surely not this late at night or in the midst of such weather,_ she thought morosely as she stomped her boots on the wooden floor, searching in the deep pockets of her coat for a match to light the lamp. Water puddled on the floor as the snow on her boots and outerwear melted in the relative warmth of the post office and telegraph station. Outside, the night was black and white and full of whirling flakes, lending an odd brightness to the air that seeped through the thin membrane of snow clinging to the windows of the wooden building, allowing her to see the lamp easily enough as she reached for it.

Golden light soon illuminated the room, and Frau Acht, grumbling under her breath, set the lamp back on its little table and trudged toward the telegraph machine. It was well past 10 o' clock, and she should be cozy and warm back in her house on the edge of the village, drowsing over her knitting as she listened to her husband ramble on about how severe this storm was and how the inevitable snow melt in the spring would affect the high pastures.

Instead, here she was, returning to her workplace so late at night as a favor to her young neighbors, the Frieslers, who had just welcomed a new baby a bit prematurely. The midwife had stopped by the Achts' house to ask her to telegraph Frau Friesler's parents in Bern as soon as possible, because the young woman was doing rather poorly after the birth and needed their assistance. "She hopes that her mother will come as soon as the roads are clear, as she's so weak and her husband knows so very little about how to care for such a tiny babe," the midwife had said, looking weary. Frau Acht had promised to brave the storm and return to the _Postamt_to send the message that night.

Now she unfolded the address from her hand, sat down before the telegraph machine with a sigh, and tapped out the message. It would arrive this very night in Bern and, she hoped, the telegraph office there would have someone working this late, and it would be delivered posthaste to the poor young woman's parents. She thought that perhaps she would stop by the Frieslers' home on her way back, if she saw a light there, to offer her personal assistance on the morrow until the new grandmother arrived. Everyone in the village took care of each other.

Her favor completed, she ran her fingers through her damp grey hair and slowly stood up. Yes, a long night's sleep would feel _very_ good after her hike back through the blizzard and her stop at the Frieslers'.

The knock on the _Postamt_door was almost inaudible under the howl of the wind outside, but it was followed by a louder, much more authoritative knock. Frau Acht wondered who could possibly be out and about on a night like this, not to mention so vehemently asking for admission to the post office.

Grumbling again, she walked across the office and opened the front door, bracing herself for the inevitable blast of icy wind. Before her, two figures stood silhouetted against the storm, and she blinked several times as she looked at them – large figures made bulkier by the warm coats they wore. Two men, by the look of it, although their faces were shadowed under broad-brimmed hats tied onto their heads by dark scarves.

"Excuse me, please, _mein liebe Frau_," the taller of the two said politely. "We saw the windows of this office lit. I wonder if you can help us by answering a few questions."

"What is this regarding?" Frau Acht asked sharply, while motioning the two men to enter, the traditional hospitality of the region giving her little choice in the matter. "Are you perhaps lost? Do you require a guesthouse?"

"No, no, not lost. You are the postmistress, are you not? We are," he cleared his throat, "from the canton government in Bern, and we are carrying out an investigation."

"Indeed – an investigation into what?" Frau Acht sighed inwardly. Two canton agents at nearly 11 at night? And what were they doing here in little Hasliberg? The situation had every indication that it might be serious and that it might take a while. Her thoughts of returning quickly to her warm house and bed seemed to dissolve like the snow that was melting and dripping from the men's coats onto her wooden floor. But, ingrained as it was into her character – as it was into almost all Swiss - to respect and assist the government, she stood politely and listened.

"Four fugitives have fled the law_, mein Frau_. We are checking with the postmasters and postmistresses up and down the valley to find out if any of you may have seen these very dangerous people, or perhaps if they have stopped in and attempted to send a telegraph. For it is the _Postamts_ that collect all the news of the region – you and your colleagues know everything that happens."

Something troubling gnawed at the back of Frau Acht's mind as she listened, but she didn't immediately grasp what it could be. "Who are these four? Do you have any indication that they might be hiding in or near our village?"

The shorter man was untying the scarf from around his head and removing his gloves. A bad sign, Frau Acht thought, for it told her they intended to stay a while and continue this line of questioning. "Three men and a woman, _mein Frau_. Traveling together." Frau Acht caught the sharp look that passed between the two men as the shorter one continued. "A tall blond man, mustache, neat, and a short dark one, unkempt, wounded in the shoulder. English. And another man and a young woman, who are, we believe, Gypsies."

"Gypsies?" snorted Frau Acht. She held no love for the lot. "We have seen no Gypsies around here recently – believe me, if we had, I would have known of it. All the village would have known of it, and I have heard nothing. And…two Englishmen? We've had none here since the summer past, when some young English hikers came through one day. They bought some cheese and bread, as I recall. The girls in the village were all a-twitter and talked of them for days. Handsome lads, a bit sunburned…"

"They may all be dressed as Gypsies," interrupted the shorter man, who was now looking at her with eyes that glittered in the lamplight. She decided that she didn't like his steady, unblinking look. It reminded her of something slimy and reptilian, and it set her nerves on edge.

"Well, nothing of that sort has happened here in Hasliberg," Frau Acht responded crisply. "I would certainly have known of a band of Gypsies in the town, snowstorm or no snowstorm. Perhaps you can check up the road in Goldern – now there, such oddnesses would fit right in. Those Golderners, now, they are a strange lot. Why, just last week Herr Laubner allowed his youngest son to join a theater troupe in Luzern. An actor, of all things! Young people should stay and help their families on the farm. He's a cheesemaker, and a very good one, who should make those boys stay and learn the trade…"

Tall Man looked up at the ceiling for a moment before interrupting Frau Acht again. "Yes, well, back to the business of the dangerous fugitives we are searching for. You are certain no strangers have attempted to send a telegraph from here?"

Frau Acht's mind was slowly grinding away on what was troubling her about this whole conversation, and all of a sudden, the gears fell into place. Of course. She stared at the two of them. "Strangers…?" she repeated slowly. "Did you say you are from the canton government in Bern?"

Every man in the Bernese cantonal government was born and bred right here in the region; that was a fact. And yet these two – they were speaking to her, a Bernese-born woman, one of their own, in a dialect she could not quite place. The people of the Bernese Oberland, in fact (though of course Frau Acht was no linguistics expert and could not have known this), spoke a unique dialect called Highest Alemannic – a very ancient, conservative form of German that had not changed much over thousands of years, tucked away in mountainous regions as it was.

She glared at her visitors. "Your way of speaking is not from around here."

Tall Man looked at his companion with a grin, and shrugged amiably. The smaller man frowned, and said, "Damn it, Leo, you win again." He smiled at Frau Acht, and again she felt a frisson of something cold and premonitory. "You have us, dear Frau. No, we're not from around here."

"Not from anywhere around here, you mean. Not from Bern. Not from Switzerland. I have heard Germans who speak as you do." She cursed herself for taking so long to notice, for the pieces to fall into place that they were not, _could not_, be who they said they were. And now she cursed herself further, for her quick tongue had just landed her in more trouble than she would have been had she but held it.

"How very clever of you." The short man took a step toward her, and Frau Acht backed away two steps. "Now, now, dear lady, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"What are two Germans doing here, asking about Englishmen and Gypsies? What has this to do with Hasliberg?" Her eyes darted toward the closed front door, but the two men had effectively blocked her path to it.

The Tall Man, Leo, sighed again and looked at Short Man with a mournful mien. "Heinrich, for pity's sake, these ladies remind me of my old granny. Why do we have to do this? We could just tie her up. They might not find her for a day or so."

Heinrich shook his head, his snake gaze never leaving Frau Acht's eyes. "You know what these stupid little villages are like. They'd raise the alarm within hours. And you know what the boss says."

He was pulling his leather gloves back on, and he and Leo advanced toward Frau Acht, who was opening her mouth to scream.

Leo nodded, disconsolate. "No loose ends."

He grabbed Frau Acht by the shoulders, as Heinrich's gloved hand covered her nose and mouth.

_No one would know for a long time where or how Frau Acht had disappeared. It was finally assumed in the village that she had become lost in the blizzard on her way back from sending the telegraph message for Frau Friesler (whose mother did arrive within a day or two, by the way, and mother and baby both lived and thrived). _

_The following spring, a farmer driving his cattle to a high pasture would find Frau Acht's body, wedged between large rocks just up the hill from the _Postamt_, as the mountain's snows were melting. _

_Remarkably, during that same deadly late-November blizzard, two other postmistresses in small villages in the Nessental Valley also disappeared. Their bodies, however, were never found. _

_The local constabulary puzzled over the three missing women for a while, but they were able to make nothing of the mystery. _

_It might even have been a case for Sherlock Holmes, had Sherlock Holmes still existed in the world. _

_Strange things sometimes happened in these mountains; weird and unnatural things that no one could explain. _

_But life, as a whole, went on. _


	12. Chapter 12

_Tangled in each other's arms, wrapped in richly brocaded coverings that smelled of sunlight and grass and vaguely of horses, Holmes and Simza slept, and Holmes dreamed within his dream. At some point during the night, the violin music outside ceased, the moon set behind the forest, and a rumble of men's voices approached the entrance of Simza's tent, laughing and joking. _

_Shaking off the dream fragments, Holmes awoke and blinked in the darkness, and Simza stirred beside him and opened her eyes. The tent flap opened, and two burly men, inebriated and shushing each other comically, dragged in the limp form of another man and deposited him on the carpets. Sim sat up, holding the covers to protect her modesty, as the two men glanced toward her, took in the fact that Holmes was beside her, and exchanged a few quiet pleasantries with her in their language before bowing their farewells and leaving. _

_A knotty tongue, Holmes decided - sitting up as well, as he also understood that his presence there had not been a problem for their visitors – with echoes of Greek, and probably not one he would ever pursue learning. He eyed the figure that sprawled unconscious on the carpet and suppressed a chuckle. Watson, who was snoring loudly, looked much the worse for wear, and probably would pay dearly for his alcoholic excesses in the morning, with a pounding head the least of his worries. _

_He glanced at Sim, who shrugged, and then rose to see to Watson. Simza lay back, and he felt her appreciative gaze on his naked body; he grinned and reached down for a red-embroidered silk blanket and looped it loosely around his waist before walking across to where his partner lay. _

"_Watson." He poked at Watson's shoulder gently. Watson frowned and muttered. _

"_Watson." A little louder. _

_Watson levered open his bleary eyes and focused slowly. _

"_Oh…hello, Holmes," he slurred. Then, suddenly, taking in Holmes' state of déshabillé, his eyes widened. "My God, Holmes, you look positively…" he searched for the word, "…debauched." He tried to sit up and tittered. "More n' usual, I mean…" _

"_Yes, well, fortuitously, I _feel _positively debauched at the moment, old boy. Can I make you more comfortable? I fear you may have had a few bumpers too many tonight."_

"_Never in life. M'fine," Watson said. He rubbed his nose and felt for the stability of the carpet with the other hand, his gaze never leaving Holmes. "Why is this room going 'round? In a circle?" _

"_What did I tell you about gypsy wine? Let's get you arranged so that your morning won't be quite so painful as all that." _

_Holmes rose and collected an armful of soft silk pillows from a pile of them near the lamp, and arrayed Watson among them so that he was lying partially on his side, with his head slightly elevated. Watson closed his eyes and quietly let Holmes unbutton his cuffs and shirtfront and pull a thick brocaded silk over him. _

"_Mother hen," Watson murmured. He reached out and patted Holmes' forearm, then tried to sit up slightly, moving his hand to Holmes' chest._

"_On the rare occasion." Holmes let the hand linger, his smile melancholy and nearly invisible in the dim light. He was aware that Simza was watching them, back in the shadows. _

"_God. So…beautiful. You…" Watson's voice sounded slightly strangled as he let the hand trail down Holmes' chest, down across the hard muscles of his stomach, until it reached the boundary of the red silk wrap. _

_Holmes closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath, knowing what needed to be done, hating himself for it. "Ah, were we but shepherd lads on Cythera," he said, a shade too brightly. _

"_Holmes…I…" Watson looked up at his face and withdrew the hand suddenly, embarrassment clouding his features. _

"_No need to say anything, old boy." Holmes hoped his voice sounded normal. "You won't remember any of this in the morning, anyway." _

"_M' sorry…" _

"_None of that, now." _

_Silence. Then, slightly querulous: "Holmes…" _

"_Yes." _

"_Why…is the world…whirling round?" _

_Holmes sighed and smiled fondly at him. "'Let the great world spin forever, down the ringing grooves of change.'" _

_Watson's voice was soft in the darkness as he finished the quote, though out of order. "'Not in vain the distance beacons – forward, forward let us range.'" _

"_Watson, you never fail to astonish me, even in the midst of your inebriation." _

"_I am not sure…where that even came from." Watson was quiet for a moment, and Holmes wondered which part of the last few minutes he was referring to. "You think I will not remember in the morning?" _

"_I'm quite certain of it. You're far too drunk, my friend." _

"_I see." _

_Silence again, and Holmes thought Watson might have fallen asleep. He glanced over at Simza, who was sitting up, her face half-lit by lamplight, and he quirked a small, sad grin at her. She cocked her head and looked at him, at the two of them, and he thought she might be looking at his soul, at _their _souls. _

"_Holmes." _

"_You're still awake. You must try to rest." _

"_Will _you_ remember?" _

"_Oh, you know me, old boy. My brain - very considerately, and no doubt mindful of my profession - forgets nothing. What if I remember for both of us?" _

_There was no answer. Watson was breathing slowly and regularly, and Holmes sat beside him and watched the flickering lamps and felt the minutes of the night pass slowly, until Simza came and covered him with a blanket and made him lie down, and curled with him on the carpet, and the gypsy camp was still. _

_The sun was well up in the sky when Watson finally emerged from Simza's tent, eyes shuttered against the blue, blue morning. Holmes was sitting on the step of Tamas's caravan, face turned up to the sun, puffing luxuriously on a pipeful of his favorite black shag. Watson blinked, groaned, semi-adjusted to the brightness, and shambled across the well-trodden grass to drop down on the step beside him. _

"_Watson, always nice to see you. How are you on this fine day?" _

_Watson glared at him balefully. "You're a tad too chipper this morning, Holmes." _

"_That was quite a jolly do last night. I'm happy to see that you immersed yourself in the local culture." _

_Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose and let his head sink into his two cupped hands. "You might try it sometime. You might make a few friends, Holmes." _

"_Ah, well, that's me. Always the observer, on the outside of it all. Personal involvements are but a nuisance and a distraction, as you yourself never tire of saying about me in your scribblings." _

_Holmes blew a rather supercilious smoke ring, and Watson frowned and allowed himself another small moan. "Holmes, you are really the most…" Watson bit back his words and contented himself with another glare. "Where are Simza and Tamas?" _

"_Arranging our transportation to Paris. Where our honeymoon trip shall continue."_

_Watson ignored the jibe. "Oh, Lord, I don't think I can face another carriage ride across country. And certainly not a train…" _

"_You _are_ looking a little green – perhaps a brisk walk would do you good. There can be no question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast." _

"_Please, please…don't mention food…" _

"_No? Well, then…" _

"_Holmes…" _

_Holmes raised an eyebrow and continued puffing. _

"_I don't recall much about last night…after a certain point…"_

"_Yes, well. _I _seem to recall warning you about them making you drink their wine…and dance…" _

"_Yes, Holmes, I do remember that. I shall endeavor to follow your very good counsel from now on." _

"_I would never presume to tell you what to do, Watson." _

"_Yes, you would," Watson muttered under his breath. _

_Holmes either didn't hear or pretended not to. "Ah, here come Sim and Tamas, over the ridge." _

_Sure enough, two figures on horseback were approaching at speed, raising a small cloud of dust on the dirt trail. _

_Holmes turned and suddenly favored Watson with a smile of such heart-stopping brilliance that it made Watson's head pound even more than it already was - stirring a shadow of a memory that just as quickly dissipated. "Let us away, Watson, while the morning is yet young. The game is well afoot, Paris awaits in all her glory, and we must soon bring our quarry to heel." _

_He rose and offered Watson a hand up, and they waited together as the two gypsies thundered into the camp with news of the next leg of their journey. _

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thank you so much for your reviews and the support and encouragement! So - this has been brought up to me privately and also in reviews here - to slash or not to slash? I do seem to be hinting at some amorous tension between Watson and Holmes, don't I - but then again, so do the films! I want to be responsive to the readership, but where do YOU see this going so far? Where would you like it to go? The movies played with our expectations of male friendship/romance, and I have tried to do that as well. I'm interested to learn the feelings of the readership. I have my own idea of where this is all going, and you never know - I could surprise you. I'm writing this in short scenes, however (partly because of my real-life writing job, which doesn't leave me a lot of time for "my own" writing, and partly because I think this novella CAN play out in short scenes...) - and we're not really that far into the story...yet. There's still a long way to go, and because I can explore Holmes' and Watson's inner passions in a way the movies cannot, I think you are in for a lot of passion on all sides of the fence, shall we say.

Am I hinting or outright saying that Watson is definitely repressing his real feelings, and so...might!...Holmes be? Hmmmm. And my Holmes is really the Bohemian of Bohemians, so you never know, shall we say, where this saga, or his heart, will take him. There's still some way to go in this story until Reichenbach, and then my "Adventure of the Empty Heart" (you can already read the first chapter on FF) will pick up AFTER Reichenbach - and there will be some surprises then, too! (Let's just say that no character is safe if this story keeps on its current track...oh dear.)

This may be Holmes/Simza now, but...hang with me. There are some very interesting things about to unfold. Am I teasing you enough?


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